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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28135875">Vivamus, moriendum est</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humanity_Sucks2002/pseuds/Humanity_Sucks2002'>Humanity_Sucks2002</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Bellamort One-Shots [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne &amp; Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, F/M, First Meetings, Flirting at a Funeral, Gen, Image Prompt, Oneshot, Pre-First War with Voldemort, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Respect for the dead does not exist apparently, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Wakes &amp; Funerals</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:01:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,370</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28135875</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humanity_Sucks2002/pseuds/Humanity_Sucks2002</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He had met her at a funeral of all places. Her Father’s funeral.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Tom Riddle, Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Voldemort, Tom Riddle &amp; Cygnus Black III, Tom Riddle &amp; Walburga Black</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Bellamort One-Shots [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2188704</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Vivamus, moriendum est</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Not quite yet a Dark Lord, Tom Riddle had returned from the continent after years studying the Dark Arts. It was simple enough to slide back into the lives of his school friends. They were all older now, the majority of them had spouses and children, all were different people. However, they were useful. Their connections, their funds, their support: it was vital for Tom to work with them if he wanted to become the Dark Lord he envisioned himself to be.</p><p>Overall, it had gone well. Abraxas Malfoy had welcomed him back to the country with open arms – even offering a room in Malfoy Manor for him to stay in. Walburga Black, upon hearing that Tom was back in the country, had immediately demanded that they meet for lunch and, upon his request, had been the first to donate to his cause. Tobias Macnair had offered to advocate for Tom’s vision in the ‘Daily Prophet’. Tom had never been one to place much stock in other people, he was a great believer in ‘if you want something done right, do it yourself’ however, even he had to admit that his ‘friends’ had done well.</p><p>He had not anticipated to be attending any of their funerals in the near future – no that would come later – so it was quite a surprise to Tom when Abraxas had informed him that Cygnus Black III had passed. It was quite incomprehensible really. Cygnus was only two years older than him; the man was only forty-five for Merlin’s sake. It was a very unexpected death.</p><p>Tom was not all that upset, he cared not for the man as he cared for no one other than himself, but he was shocked. It is natural, he supposed, to be taken aback when a schoolfellow dies. It could so easily have been him, if he had not had the foresight to invest in his horcruxes of course.</p><p>Walburga had been the one to insist that he attend the funeral. A cold woman, her own brother’s sudden death was, to her, an opportunity for networking. There was a reason he had chosen her to be a part of his little group back in the day.</p><p>She had swept Tom inside as soon as he had knocked upon the door at Grimmauld Place. A whirlwind of midnight blue dress robes, greying curls and curt orders to her small army of house elves, Walburga Black had marched him through the house to the parlour and pressed a cup of tea into his hands.</p><p>Walburga’s teacups were black, with gold around the rim. Different animals – all nocturnal – were painted on the inside, on the white part of the china. The one Tom had been given had a moth, fluttering its inky wings as he drank from it.</p><p>“How did Cygnus die?” Tom asked, knowing that the blunt question would not upset the woman sat across from him. He was right. Walburga just sighed and pursed her lips.</p><p>“A heart attack of all things.” She said. “I told him all the rich food would catch up to him. He did not listen to me.” Clearly – Tom had thought – but did not say it out loud.</p><p>It was strange: he had seen Cygnus the week before, and, at that point, he had seemed perfectly healthy. Cygnus had given Tom his business card and invited him to have a lunch discussion of the Cause. Ironically enough, they had scheduled it for the day that was now going to be Cygnus’ funeral, so really Tom was keeping up his end of the bargain.</p><p>“I’ll make an appearance,” Tom had said, “to pay my respects to a good friend.” Walburga had nodded, understanding what that really meant. He had left soon after that, as Walburga’s oldest son – Tom believed his name was Sirius – had barged into the parlour and started making a scene. Tom didn’t understand how someone as agreeable to him as Walburga had managed to produce such an irritating child. Quite a disappointing failure.</p><p>The day of the funeral was overcast, damp, a drizzly late-November morning. All the great and, well good might not be the correct word for this little meeting, of the Pureblood world was in attendance. Tom flitted from group to group, talking with many people he had not seen since he was in Hogwarts. Walburga had been right about this being an opportunity, he had to admit. He only spoke to her briefly, as she was very busy trying to stop Sirius from smoking, quite unsuccessfully, and snapping at her husband, to keep their younger son from crying. That too was unsuccessful; the boy was hysterical.   </p><p>Outside the Black family mausoleum, Tom had seen a small flock of women. Well, women and girls. He recognised Druella Black through her widow’s mourning veil, ebony roses holding the thin fabric in place on her head. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, that she clutched in hands covered in black, lace gloves. Tom wasn’t sure whether she was actually crying or if she was acting. On either side of her was two of her daughters.</p><p>Tom knew that Cygnus and Druella had three daughters, but he had not yet met them, due mainly to life getting in the way. The two younger ones he knew were still in school – and Cygnus was unlikely to interrupt his daughters’ education to meet an old friend when those introductions could be made in the holidays. The oldest one was recently married and had left on her honeymoon the week that Tom had returned to Britain. Cygnus had bragged about the connection between the House of Black and the House of Le-Strange in their last meeting together, as well as had assured him that ‘Bella’ would be very interested in meeting Tom, when she returned from the South of France.</p><p>A very short, dainty, blonde girl, clung onto Druella’s free hand with her own gloved one. Large sunglasses covered most of the girl’s face, but it was clear to see that, even if she hadn’t been wearing them, the girl’s face was stone. The only thing that showed her to be in any way affected by what she was seeing was a very slight pursing of her lips. This steel magnolia was juxtaposed with her sister – who was barely holding herself together.</p><p>The other girl, as dark as her sister was fair, was wide eyed, teary and biting her lower lip in a vain attempt to keep herself from crying. There were thin streaks of mascara down her cheeks and she had bitten off a lot of her lipstick. Compared to the little sister, who had to be at least three years younger than the girl, it was quite a display.</p><p>Tom was in a particularly boring conversation with one of the Avery brothers when he spotted a couple making their way towards Druella and her daughters. A man and a woman. The woman marched ahead, stilettos clicking on the pavement with every step.  A wide-brimmed, black hat blocked her face from Tom’s view, not obstructing the manicured waves of her dark hair though. She wore a very long, fitted black coat that must have been charmed to allow her to walk so easily in it. The man she was with trailed behind her, hands in his dress-robes pockets. A neatly trimmed, Van-Dyke style beard did nothing to hide the mild discomfort on his face. Tom made the assumption that these two must be the Le-Strange newlyweds.  </p><p>His suspicions were confirmed when the woman stopped in front of Druella and the girls, nodded gravely to Druella and the blonde one, then put her hand on the crying girl’s shoulder. That caused her to break down entirely, and to throw herself into her sister’s arms, sobbing.</p><p>“Come on Andy,” He heard the Le-Strange woman (Bella?) say, firmly but not unkindly, “you need to pull yourself together.”</p><p>“I’m trying Bella!” He heard Andy whimper into her sister’s coat. Tom congratulated himself on correctly remembering her name. “I…I can’t…they won’t stop!”</p><p>“Stand up straight.” Bella sighed, and Andy complied, the tears still flowing. Bella pulled her wand out of her coat and cast some sort of spell – silently – to force Andy’s body to stop crying. Then, as her sister stood there shocked, Bella did some quick charms to fix up the makeup Andy had destroyed in her grief. “I know it hurts – but Father wouldn’t want you to make a fool of yourself in public. I’ll release the charm after the burial, alright?”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“Chin up.” Bella said, as her husband caught up to her. He greeted his in-laws warmly and offered his condolences – which bored Tom enough to get him to stop eavesdropping. There were far more interesting people to talk to whilst he waited for the real funeral to begin.</p><p>The mourners milled together as they waited for the stragglers to arrive. Someone had set up a buffet table along one wall of the mausoleum, which felt a little in bad taste to Tom, but not enough to say anything about it. A drink in hand, he stood under a poplar tree with Tobias Macnair, talking about the spread he was going to put in the paper for him. Macnair was excited for this – much to Tom’s pleasure.</p><p>“Mr Riddle?” He turned to the sound of his name and, was greeted by Bella standing a little behind him, a hand on her hip. Her hat covered her eyes, the murky light was shrouded from her entire face besides her red lipstick.</p><p> Macnair excused himself quietly, sensing that their conversation was over.</p><p>“I do not believe we have been introduced. My name is Bellatrix Le-Strange, I believe you knew my father?”</p><p>“Ah, Madame Le-Strange, a pleasure.” Tom nodded, offering his hand for her to shake, which she did with a strong grip. “I did – he was two years ahead of me at Hogwarts, we met in the Slug-Club.” Tom explained, and Bellatrix nodded, knowingly. Slughorn must still be collecting students. “Cygnus spoke very highly of you when we last spoke.” Tom said with a practised, polite smile often used when trying to charm money out of possible investors.</p><p>“I am glad to hear that, he did the same for you last I spoke to him.” Bellatrix tilted her head back, and he was finally able to see her entire face. She was ice. Her features were sharp and unyielding. Aristocratic, elegant and hauntingly beautiful. Dark eyes lined thick with coal eyed him up like she was deciding whether or not to buy him. Predatory. It intrigued him. “He told me that he had arranged a business meeting with you, is that correct?” He nodded in acknowledgement. She smiled, like a wolf. “Well, Father wrote in his will that he wished for me to uphold any business arrangements he had running at his death. Would you like to reschedule that meeting sometime soon with me?”</p><p>“That would be fantastic Madame Le-Strange, thank you.” It was also very unexpected: he had not even considered that Cygnus would have had such forethought. It wasn’t like his was an expected death. Walburga was right, this was a very useful social occasion.</p><p>Bellatrix looked a little irritated for a split second before she schooled her features back into the icy passivity that had dominated it before.</p><p>“Oh please, call me Bellatrix. I am not ready to step into my mother-in-law’s title yet.” She said, the tone of her voice jovial but there was a steel underneath that which Tom did not miss. What did that imply, he wondered? Was there trouble in paradise so soon after their wedding? Tom didn’t know why he was interested: he knew many people in unhappy marriages (Walburga being a perfect example) and no mental power was wasted by thinking about it. Still, he <strong>was</strong> interested.</p><p>“Of course, Bellatrix.” He smiled as he said her name, voice as smooth as honey, and that gained a smirk in response. “How old are you, might I ask or would that be rude of me?” She looked very much a woman, not a child, but she could not be older than twenty-three, because he had left the country twenty-four years before and Cygnus and Druella weren’t even expecting when he had left.</p><p>“It’s only rude if the lady is ashamed of her age.” She matched his silky tone, on the verge of flirtation but still formal enough that, if her husband was to overhear the conversation, he would not really be able to say anything about it. “I am twenty. I assure you that my age does not mean lack of wisdom, though.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t dare suggest that.” He did slip into the territory of flirtation then, and felt quite pleased when she huffed a little in laughter, her tongue curled and resting on one of her perfect canine teeth.</p><p>“How open is your diary next week?”</p><p>“I am free all-day Wednesday. Is that good for you?” He was actually free all week but he didn’t want to tell her that. The illusion that he was incredibly busy would be useful, to make people want his attention more and more. Scarcity makes a thing more valuable after all.</p><p>“Yes.” She nodded. “How about eleven o’clock? We can have a late breakfast and discuss what is needed.”</p><p>What is it with the House of Black and business meals, he thought? Walburga, Cygnus and now Bellatrix. Although, he wasn’t one to turn down a free meal. A force of habit from his orphanage days, made worse from when he’d run out of money whilst he’d been travelling. A lunch and business discussion would work very well indeed.</p><p>“Perfect.”</p><p>“Right, do you need my address?”</p><p>“That would be helpful, thank you.” He said, dryly, and she laughed a little, seeing how stupid that question was immediately after it had left her mouth. He found it endearing – and that annoyed him.</p><p>“No.15, Royal Crescent, Brighton. There are wards on the house to stop Muggles from seeing it. There is also a stuffed crow in the first-floor window.” Bellatrix added, as another landmark so that he would be sure which house it was.</p><p>Tom had not been to Brighton since the summer after he left Hogwarts. A day trip, on his one day off a week from his Borgin and Burkes job. He’d been so tired that he had just dozed off on the beach. Overworked to the bone, he’d been more certain than ever that he would one day be so powerful that he would never feel that tired again. He was not there yet, but he was on the warpath.</p><p>“I was unaware that the Le-Stranges owned a house in Brighton.”</p><p>“They didn’t before last week.”</p><p>“Congratulations on your house, I suppose.” He shrugged and she put her hands in her pockets. “I shall see you on Wednesday. Really, I am sorry for your loss.” He gave false condolences: truly he cared very little. Bellatrix looked as though she saw straight through the smokescreen, but she said nothing about it. </p><p>“Thank you.” She nodded, doing what was expected. They could not speak anymore as, before another word could be said, Walburga set off a small, black firework to get everyone’s attention. A sergeant in the trenches would have had more tack in their delivery of a command than Walburga: the harsh, curt way in which she ordered people into the mausoleum ruffled the feathers of several older guests, and a couple of children hid behind parent’s legs. Bellatrix rolled her eyes. “I get the feeling that she is ready for us.”</p><p>“I think you may be right about that.”</p><p>The ceremony was tasteful. Druella and Walburga both gave short speeches, Druella’s cut short because she started to cry and Walburga’s short because that was her style of oration. Short, not all that sweet and very to the point. Narcissa Black read one of Cygnus’ published poems (a particularly depressing number that seemed to have been written when his own father had died). A few of Cygnus friends played the funeral march as the coffin was brought out and as the officiate spoke about Cygnus’ achievements in life. An author and poet, father and husband, businessman: Cygnus had done quite a lot in the time that Tom had been away.</p><p>The mausoleum was opened with a sort of grim respectfulness, and a wave of dust (as the door had not been opened for many years). The coffin was deposited inside by the entire clan, each witch and wizard pointing their wand to it and each helping to float it into its final resting place.</p><p>As it was placed there, a charm was enacted, turning the wood to stone like ice climbing up a frozen window. Crackling, it rose in unique spirals that at once looked terribly delicate and incredibly substantial. As it reached the coffin’s lid, a figure began to form. Cygnus in statue form appeared, as if he was sleeping. Eyes closed. Arms crossed over his chest. Head tilted backward, in a way that would be uncomfortable to a living person. It was the end of a life. End of an era.</p><p>Tom found it unsettling to think that the man was only two years older than himself. He was dead – dead at forty-five! A heart attack! Tom was, not for the first time, very pleased that he had his horcruxes. This would not happen to him. He would not let it.</p><p>Across the coffin, Tom made eye contact with Bellatrix, as she held her sisters’ hands. Her husband stood a little behind her, his own placed upon her shoulder. Druella stood a little apart, the matriarch alone. It looked like a family portrait, or a particularly dramatic album cover, those figures in black. Each a little different from the others but with enough consistency between them to tell they were related. The sisters shared the same nose shape – the same eyes and jawline.</p><p>Yet, as Tom watched them, the only one he could find anything intriguing about was the eldest. When she met his gaze, over her father’s body, her dark eyes told him all he needed to know. She would support his cause; she was eager to in fact. Not only that, she eyed him up with the same interest he felt about her. He should not be pleased about that, what did it matter after all? But he was pleased.</p><p>The company poured out of the mausoleum sombrely. Well, most people were. Sirius Black – ruffian that he was – jumped up from his seat as soon as the ceremony was over and sprinted out of the building. One of his little friends was waiting for him outside, some skinny, bespectacled boy. The two of them disappeared before Walburga could catch them. Enraged, she was muttering under her breath. Tom caught her saying something about ‘no respect for the dead’ and ‘Gryffindor miscreants’ tainting her son. Tom had to leave her alone – she looked like she was going to explode if anyone spoke to her.</p><p>There was to be a formal lunch back at Cygnus and Druella’s home in Yorkshire, but that was just for the family. The rest of the guests had to make do with the service that had just been provided. If Tom had actually given a damn about Cygnus’ life, he may have felt slighted by that. But, he did not. The House of Black valued itself over all others – they didn’t care whether the friends got closure over his death. They would go and sit, not talk about their emotions, and exclaim that it was a damned shame. Then they would drink, and repress. It was the way of the House.</p><p>“Till Wednesday, Mr Riddle.” Bellatrix said as she walked past him. Hand in hand with her husband, Bellatrix eyed Tom up over her shoulder, a little smirk on her red, painted lips. The tone of her voice was innocent: the look was not. The husband, poor fool, did not notice and just continued to walk, unaffected.</p><p>“Till Wednesday.” Tom nodded.</p><p>He could not help but feel satisfied. Things really were looking up.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Vivamus, moriendum est - the title means 'Let us live, since we must die.' I thought it sounded cool.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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